


king and lionheart

by jaimelanniser



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 13:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimelanniser/pseuds/jaimelanniser
Summary: based off the song 'king and lionheart'





	king and lionheart

She was what had kept him going through it all. Through the blood and the cries and the exhaustion that threatened to trample him, it was her face, vivid in his mind, that had been his strength to  _go on_.

Sansa would never know, could  _not_  know. It was important that she didn’t know, because nothing that she did was for his sake; it was for the sake of their people, their lords and ladies, and everything she did came from heart and head. She had become the perfect balance between heart and head, and Jon sometimes wondered if he was too much heart sometimes. It always screamed at him to follow her guidance, to lean on her for her love.

She did love him; perhaps she hadn’t, when they were little, but she had grown to love him as of late, and every day had consisted of her sharp blue eyes infiltrating his heart, piece by piece, until she occupied all of it, until she was the reason for his being.

 _You have become too important to me,_  Jon thought as he looked up at her from his horse, as his men settled down around him. She smiled, relieved to see him alive, and he smiled in return.  _You have given me so much to lose._

–

 _He is glorious_. Her heart soared at the sight of him, dirty and beaten and sitting tall and proud on the courtyard, a king in every sense of the word.  _They made him king, but he rules for me._

It had become her duty, as warden of the North, to rule in his stead, but all Sansa wanted was for him to come back. To come back  _to her_ , alive and well and hers. Jon was not hers; he was the North’s. He had been the Night’s Watch, and then he had been the wildlings’, and now he belonged to the North.

But he was noble, and warm, and gentle, and Sansa  _loved_  him. She admired him, respected him, supported him, wanted the world for him. Wanted to somehow give back to him, for everything that he had given to her: safety, warmth,  _family._

She was his little sister, and he was her hero.

—

“You are much loved,” he pointed out to her as they were supping later that night, candlelight between them, illuminating her face pink and peaceful. “Maester Wolkan tells me you are revered by all.”

Sansa barely smiled. “You are still their king.”

Jon wanted to reach out between them to take her hand, but it was all the way across the table and the distance felt like miles. “Aye, I may be their king, but you are a Stark. A true Stark. You represent everything they thought they had lost.”

“I have told you before that you are a Stark to me.”

 _Yes,_  Jon watched her silently.  _Those words haunt me in the middle of the night when all I want is to feel the warmth of your body close to mine._  “I’m proud of you, Sansa,” is what he said instead.

She ducked her face for a moment, and when she looked back up, her eyes were glazed over with unshed tears. They pulled at his heartstrings and Jon leaned over the table closer to her. “I am,” he insisted, and damning all gods, reached across to place his open palm before her. “You are so strong.”

“You make me strong,” was her reply, and it took her a while, but she took his hand and met his eyes. “You make me  _want_  to be strong.”

—

How could she say that he was the reason she was still going? Sansa was not good with words, she was not the sort of girl who made declarations of love. She might have been, once upon a time, but that girl had died with her father.

All that was left was this shell of a person that she had become. Cynical and cold and closed off.

Jon deserved a  _queen,_ not a broken figurine.

There was nothing but affection in his eyes, dark and seemingly unyielding until they seemed to glow with intensity sometimes. Sometimes, Sansa thought she might get lost in them.

Her fingers trembled in his palm and he tightened his hold, wrapping them in his own steady, grasp. “You gave me purpose,” he whispered, his voice low and deep and rumbling in the empty room. “You will  _always_  be my purpose.”

And the Sansa that had died would have certainly swooned at his words: like a knight declaring himself on a quest for the maiden’s hand. But she was no maiden, and this was not one of Old Nan’s tales.

“You cannot leave again,” she stated, fixing her eyes on him intently. “Promise me. Promise me, Jon.”

—

Jon might have laughed, in another moment. By the gods, he would never depart her side from now on. Every step away from her was excrutiating, she had him completely wrapped around his finger and she did not even realise it. He relied on her, body and soul, absolutely. He was entirely hers, wherever she wanted him.

Leaving Winterfell once had been a mistake, and Jon did not make the same mistake twice.

“I won’t,” he promised with a nod, letting her hand fall from his as he stood up from his chair and walked around the table.

He perched himself on the edge of it, next to her, and gently placed his hand on her shoulder; her auburn hair, flickering red in the candlelight, brushed his fingertips, and Jon resisted the urge to run his fingers through it.

Sansa turned her face to look up at him, and he was breathless for a moment. “We’re stronger together,” he told her, smiling. “We will never be apart again.”

—

Her body seemed to relax at his words, and Sansa smiled back. His hand on her shoulder was heavy and light at the same time, and every inch of her wanted to get closer to him. Jon drew her in and sometimes she was powerless to resist.

So she stood, as well, watching as his hand dropped from her shoulder as she did. She was a little taller than him, but she felt small in comparison.

It was so good to have him this close, so good. It felt so right. She was in a dreamlike state, and he was a solid presence. Sansa wanted so much, but she didn’t dare to do any of it.

—

Jon felt his body grow warm when she stood before him, so close, and his eyes searched her face for  _something_  even if he did not know himself what it was. But Sansa had become a master at sculpting her emotions and expressions, and as usual, he found a blank canvas.

He wanted to  _kiss_  her.

—

 _Kiss me_ , she thought desperately.

—

But Sansa needed a brother; she needed  _family_.

—

But Jon was her king, not her knight.

—

He hugged her, wrapping his arms around her body and holding her close, as close as they could get, and buried his face into her hair, breathing in the scent of her. He took from her serenity and sense and the confidence she gave him, and loved her.

—

She clung onto him and shut her eyes and loved the moment while it happened. She brushed off the feelings of disappointment and desire, and focused on the strength, the valour, the safety that she felt when he held her like that, and loved him.

—

Jon was a king, and Sansa was his lionheart.


End file.
